A new (not necessarily better) name?

[shelbyrou]

It is currently 12:14 Pacific Time on Fri Aug 13 2010.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Crescent (Theurge) Moon phase (23% full).

Shore Around Half Moon Pool
The shadowy canopy of evergreens recedes here, opening into a small clearing. The grass underfoot is a vibrant young green, luxurient and seemingly soft to the touch; small flowers, some purple and others blue or yellow, add to the spread of color. Immediately to the east, the ground rises into a small, rocky outcropping, at the base of which stands a large pool of crystal clear water; the barest rivulet of a stream wends its way south and west from the pool across the clearing, losing itself in the forest. This whole area has about it a sense of peace and silence; the air is cool and fresh, the scent of the flowers pleasant, the colors of the forest in seemingly perfect balance. Anything not pristine or natural seems almost a world away to you here.

The half-moon shaped pool lies just to the east. A faint trail seems to follow the little stream southwest into the forest.

Obvious exits:
Forest Half Moon Pool

Tim is kneeling next to the small stream, the evidence of a recent ritual to hand: his switchblade has a line of blood running down the edge, and his hands are dug into the ground, gripping it like he might fly away but for that anchoring. He gazes out over the half-moon pool, lost in contemplation, and his shoulderbag sits in the crook of an old, gnarly redcedar's roots.

Scent masked, Shelby approaches the other Ragabash at an angle, her plum track suit standing out against the dappled gold of the forest. She's taking pains to move quietly though it may not be enough, and rather than leap at the knife-wielding Strider she pauses at the far edge of the pool and gives him a few seconds to acknowledge her.

Tim is some time in doing anything except blinking. Eventually he takes in a deeper breath, lets it out slowly, and focuses on Shelby. "Hey." He releases the ground, revealing two long cuts across his palms which are now partially sealed with mud. He leans over to wash them in the stream. "How's things?"

Although his black-brown eyes are bright and full of amusement, Tim's appearance is otherwise average. A touch over six feet in height, he has the lean, wirey-muscled body of a man near to his 30s who has lived neither easily nor poorly. His looks follow suit, offering nothing striking in a homely or handsome way to recommend them: his face is gently rounded and a little long, with trim, black eyebrows framing clear eyes. His chin is present but not remarkable, and largely hidden behind a well-maintained, night-black circle beard flecked with white and grey. Hints of an ethnic mix that's not easy to pinpoint abound, and his European ancestry can't obscure subtle, Eastern influences: a darker tint to his skin, narrowed eyes, and a slender nose that flattens out. His black hair might be wavey if it were allowed to get beyond the close, side-clipped cut he prefers, and it has a tendency to stick up in numerous directions until smoothed back. Belying the modesty of his looks are his movements, with grace and deftness marking almost everything he does. The scent of sandalwood lingers around him.

More patient now than she was a few months ago, the Silver Fang rises from her own knees with a quick smile. "I'm doing well, thank you. Yourself?" Half a breath later she adds with a nod at his hands, "Let me guess - that was some sort of ritual?"

"Okay," Tim says after some consideration. He nods, as much to answer her second question as to affirm his response to the first one. "Lots of ways to do it. You bleed for Gaia, and get yourself in sych with her and the world maybe." He shifts to Glabro, and the hand wounds begin to close almost immediately.

"I didn't think you were daring Gaia to give you tetanus," she agrees with a grin and begins to pick her way around the pool to join him. "Zosia-rhya's teaching me one about honoring my ancestors. How does yours work? You... give yourself to Gaia, affirm your connectivity?" Shelby waves one airy hand to signify the woo-woo of it all.

Tim blinks at the mention of honoring ancestors, the only betrayal of a reaction. "That's a good one," he says, nodding. "For this one, you bleed--doesn't matter how. Knife, claw, whatever." An awkward pause suggests there are other methods he is not going to name under any circumstances. "And you pray, however you find the most meaning in doing that."

"She said," Shelby continues, stepping over the stream and turning her smile up to eleven, "that primarily only the Silver Fangs and a few Fianna do it. You'd think the Shadow Lords would want to honor their ancestors too, wouldn't you? --That's interesting," she adds, nodding toward his hands. "Is that one you do every day?"

"Every day. And I expect a lot of other Tribes can do it, they just may have their own ways." Tim shrugs. "But some Tribes don't share their rituals." His eyes flit to the horizon for a moment, then back to Shelby. "They're, ah, protective."

Shelby takes a few seconds to brush off her clothes before looking back at the Strider. "Really?" Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. "You'd think we'd all share our knowledge, since we're all working toward the same goal." Another beat, eyes twinkling. "--Or is that too Gaian of me?"

Hands healed, Tim shifts back to homid. He gives Shelby a fox-like grin to echo the gleem in the cub's eyes. "If you think you can convince Zosia of that," he says, all feigned innocence, "you just let me know." He clearly has something specific in mind. "And I know at least one Gaian with a ritual she won't, or can't, teach to others." He runs a hand through his hair. "Even they have their secrets."

"She might be willing to trade," Shelby points out, all innocence. "What have you been up to, Tim-rhya? Zosia said the two of you tracked those badgers that attacked us last week, right? To some building site?"

"I doubt I've got anything she'd trade something like this for." Tim's hand unconsciously goes to his mouth. "Mmmm. Not that far. But the trail pointed that way, so ti could be related. We tangled with a hare that was like the badgers. Had spines too, by the way, so if you see any more metal things like those? No biting." He pauses, looking like something significant has occurred to him, but just reiterates, "They hurt."

Shelby says, "You never know. She is the Ritemistress, after all," but veers willingly enough to this new topic and grimaces. "Mmn. I figured that part out already. It felt like I was chewing glass, or something. At least it latched onto Kerr, so it was more or less holding still when I went after it. Chandini told us to go for the belly."

Tim snorts and shakes his head. "Tribal secrecy takes precedence over Sept positions about ninety percent of the time." His eyes narrow in a contemplative fashion. "Which'll make more sense once you're a cliath, I think." He nods to the rest. "The hare had metal bones. Not silver, praise Ganesha."

Shelby snorts, ever the teenager. "You know, that sounds exactly like 'we'll tell you when you're older'." She doesn't press, but doesn't hide her eyeroll either, just settles down on the grass to run her hands over the softness. "I don't know what the badgers had. Chandini told me to scout for others and get help, so I wasn't around when they were dissected. --If they were dissected, that is."

Tim shakes his head. "I don't think they were. We only found out the hare had metal bones because it ah, became obvious when we were fighting it." He shrugs at the rest. "It's not that I'm not telling you about it, it's that it might not seem obvious why things turn out that way until you're part of your Totem's Tribe." He looks down at the water, then settles himself so he's sitting lotus-style and not kneeling. "Not sure why it happens like that, but it does."

"They've got their reasons," Shelby agrees with a shrug, accepting even if she doesn't agree. "If you were going to lead the trip to track down those badgers and that hare, who would you take? Zosia already told me what she'd do," she explains, "I'm just trying to collect other ideas."

"At least two folks who're good for fighting," Tim says immediately. "Especially ones who can handle pain--Unicorn's folks can do that, and there's a ritual, and some people are just focused enough. Don't have to be fullmoons." He smiles at a memory. "I was packed with a Philodox who was about as good as any full moon for the fight." He considers the rest. "Two folks who can heal or help with injuries. Doesn't have to be blademoons, as long as healing is something they can do. Two scouts. Folks who know how to trick things and fight without their teeth." A pause, and he nods at the list, approving it.

"So... six," Shelby summarizes, and nods as punctuation. "Or, at least six. Zosia-rhya suggested about seven or eight, so it sounds like you two think about the same number would be useful."

"Six at the most," Tim says, pointing for emphasis. "If your scouts or fighters are Gaians, they might also be your healers. That lets you keep it down closer to five." He tilts his head. "Six is comfortable, eight is too big for anything but a war party. Unless most of them are in a pack together, it gets difficult to communicate clearly and quietly."

Shelby absorbs this new information with a thoughtful frown. "Well, you could do it with as few as four, then if either your scouts or fighters were also healers. What if they were in a pack, though? Would you want most of them to be packed and only a couple of outliers, or what?"

Tim bobs his eyebrows. "That depends on the kind of Pack. Some Totems are very good for scouting, and they bless the Pack in ways that make it that much stronger for quick fights that you have to end fast so you can beat feet." He gestures sharply with one hand, a firm, knife-like motion. This is, it seems, something he's familiar with. "Other Totems don't bring as much for scouting, but just being a Pack is enough to tie folks together, in the head and in the hand." All of that said, he allows, "At least three of them. But if you can't get that many in a Pack, it can still work."

"I think I'd like that kind of Totem," the Silver Fang says, quirking nearly a grin at the bobbing eyebrows. "Not the running away part, but the quick fight so it's over part." She pets the grass a moment more before looking up again. "All right, thank you. I didn't ask Zosia for her breakdown; I'll have to do that. I should ask a few other people, too."

Tim nods in reponse to the thanks. "It's just how I think. I'm not great at fighting, so I need folks around who are. I can't heal and I get messed up easily, so people who heal should be around. It's a scouting party, there ought to be scouts. Others might think of it as simple numbers, and be less worried about roles, since," he grimaces, "you can't always find someone to fill a role."

"Six ragabash is going to be a whole lot different from six ahroun, though," points out one of the former, her head tilted to one side. "It took me and Kerr to take down one badger, and Chandini killed two of them herself. So I think thinking about roles is important, even if you can't necessarily fill them."

"But Kerr is a fullmoon, like Chandini." Tim holds up a finger. "She's just not a Fostern. Rank matters because of the spirit Gifts you bring," he briefly looks thoughtful, "even if some folks don't really like that. For something like this, all Cliaths would be alright. Fosterns would just improve the outcome."

"But she's a cub," Shelby points out. "What if they were all Fostern, or Fostern and Adren? Would you still want four to six? --Assuming that they had the gifts and skills you wanted, of course."

Tim arches an eyebrow at Shelby. "That's what I meant. Kerr's a cub, so it took you and her to take out one badger, and Chandini managed two by herself. And still at least four to five. Having people with more Gifts isn't a reason to skimp on numbers." He looks away, towards the construction site. "The Wyrm won't."

Shelby ohs, and picks invisible lint from one knee. Lightly, "So it's not a linear progression. One Elder doesn't equal two-point-five Adren, or two Fostern for seven cubs." She glances up again, barely refraining from another smile.

With a saccharine smile, Tim says, "No," and flashes his teeth. "It has everything to do with the Garou. Being a Fostern isn't nothing, but you're not two Cliaths. You might not even be two cubs."

"Maybe a cub and a half," decides Shelby judiciously, and lets her smile bloom. "You're still without a pack, aren't you, Tim-rhya?"

"Come on, a cub and three-fourths, at least." Tim sniffs, indignant in the face of that smile. He blinks at the other question and takes up his knife in lieu of avoiding the question. "Yeah." He turns the blade in with a click and pockets it. "Kind of like going around without pants." His mouth twitches in an inward, repressed smile.

"I hate to think of all those pantsless cubs, then," she teases, and promptly looks pained as though she just did. An, "--Ew," pretty much confirms it. "Well, are you looking for some pants, at least? Or have you decided that shorts or a nice kilt are the way to go?"

"Kilts are drafty," Tim informs Shelby. The concreteness of that 'no' is indisputeable, then his expression sobers. "And ah, I'm not so good just freelancing. Sora and I are trying to find some more people." He shrugs helplessly. "Sometimes it grows up around you, sometimes not."

"Sora," the Fang repeats, momentarily startled. "The Uktena? --Huh." Tilting her head first one way, then the other, seems to settle the idea into some sort of equilibrium, at least enough for her to continue, "So you're probably looking for some larger moons to balance things?"

Tim shakes his head. "I try not to think of it like that. It would be good if we did find Garou from the fuller auspices, but I'll take people I can work with over the 'perfect'," he makes little air quotes, "Pack any day of the week and twice on Sunday." He half-shrugs, dismissing perfection. "I've been in Packs with a lot of one or the other. They've got benefits and drawbacks. It's more important that you support one another, not that you fill in every role under Luna's face. That's why there's more than one Pack, and more than one Tribe, and more than one auspice."

"And more than one Sept," Shelby adds with a brief poking-out of her tongue, so there. "I'm probably over-thinking again, anyway. I should be happy just to get off the bawn - concentrate on that first, and other things second."

"Wanting a Pack's natural." Tim snorts quietly and looks at the stream. "And wanting to get back to the city is too. It'll all happen on its own if you're patient. Don't need to worry about planning on who, or what, or when. The Universe throws things at us when it feels like it."

Shelby runs her palms over the grass again, enjoying the feel of it without singling out only one blade. "That's what I do, though," she says simply, looking up. "I think it would take a lot more than finding out I'm one of Gaia's chosen warriors and utterly upsetting the rest of my life to change that."

"Then you should be fine," Tim says. Not unsympathetically, he adds, "It might not feel fine, considering what we're up against, and considering for 17 years you had other things in mind."

Shelby snickers at him and shakes her head. "Nearly eighteen," she corrects. "Though, I suppose you're closer. I don't think I started planning my future--not seriously, anyway--until I was two."

Tim gives Shelby a toothy grin. "What, you didn't have a plan to eat and make your parents' lives hell from the second you were breathing?" He re-assesses her. "Talk about an under-achiever."

"No, at two I was planning their takeover of the State Department," she reports mock-regretfully, and brushes her knees clean again. "I didn't start thinking of myself until I got the rejection letter from Harvard, when I was three."

Tim scoffs. "Harvard rejected you? Well," he gestures in a very real dismissal, "they've got no taste out that ways. Shoulve'd've just applied to USC."

"Georgetown," Shelby offers apologetically--either for her taste or his. "USC's a state school. It would be interesting, though, for a pack to claim SCCU as territory, wouldn't it? I can't imagine much bad happens there, but who am I to know?"

"Oh no, Ms. Shelby, USC is a private school." Tim gives this correction, relishing it in an overwrought manner. He drops that in favor of the new topic. "Plenty. The Weaver's strong there, and the Wyrm is all over the city. Also, the ages of the kids are right for lost cubs. I've come across more than one out that way."

"University of Southern California?" she repeats, confused, but shakes it off. "--Really? Cubs like us, it would have to be. Because I can't imagine too many twenty-two year olds who haven't changed yet."

Tim nods his confirmation to the first question. "You might be thinking of UCLA--that one's public. USC a private school though. Really fucking expensive." After a beat he admits, "I was looking at school there. Not that I had the grades or the money for anything but a local place, but it was nice to dream. And yeah, cubs who Change later, mostly. Though a couple had parents who worked there."

Shelby says, "Oh, yes," even if she wasn't before. "I don't think USC would have even been on the table," she adds after a rueful moment. "I came here because SCCU was close to a Sept. There aren't that many universities that offer pre-law near Septs."

"There's plenty of reasons to not be in LA." Someone sounds intensely bitter. Tim doesn't elaborate, choosing to talk about about the rest. "And SCCU's not a bad place. I assume you mean, Septs near a university that aren't city Septs?" For once, he doesn't sound like he's teasing.

"Mmn," Shelby concedes, "Septs near a university with a sizable Silver Fang population. Which, granted, the Hidden Walk doesn't have, but it does have Zosia. That was enough for her father. Although," she adds with another wry twist, "I was expecting to have a little more time out from underneath her eye. Oh well."

"I didn't expect to be stuck in Phoenix for another three years," Tim sympathizes. "That's the Universe for you." He sighs and starts to get up. "I should get back to the city, speaking of which. Want to come to Edgewood for a sandwich?"

As Shelby likewise pushes to her feet, "I'd rather go into the city for a sandwich, but yes, I'll take Edgewood as a compromise." Of course her clothes need to be brushed again once she's achieved bipedal. "On four feet, I assume? Otherwise it'd take all week to get there."

Tim laughs softly. "Maybe it'd take you all week," he teases, but shifts to lupus regardless. Come, Walks-All-Week. We will run. He pants.